


Far Too Precious

by Iwantthatcoat



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Asexuality, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Sleep Deprivation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-02-23 09:49:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23009587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwantthatcoat/pseuds/Iwantthatcoat
Summary: Sherlock Holmes without a case is not a good thing
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 11
Kudos: 41





	Far Too Precious

“How long has it been, Holmes?”

I bristle at the question, regardless of what his precise line of inquiry may be—for it could be one of any number, and each provides ample reasons for concern. I reach for the least vexing, though I already know that I am wrong.

“Four days shy of a fortnight,” spoken as if I anticipate those remaining four days to be as fruitless as the previous ten, steeped as we are in this cursed streak of yellow fog. Even the pickpockets are staying indoors, finding the air suitable for neither man nor beast, despite its providing more than ample cover. One would think the true criminals would relish such a foul atmosphere as synchronous with a foul mind, or, take their refuge indoors with the rest, planning various elaborate, domestic schemes. Poisoning would be ideal at such a juncture. Alas, the cleverest of criminals have left London. Perhaps they too seek an escape from the dreary scenery, and these worst-of-the-worst so frequently being men of means, fled to more agreeable climes. 

Or perhaps, dare I say, they are avoiding my city due to my stellar reputation. You may think I flatter myself, but in truth I have heard from Msr Bertillon himself that the rates of crime have increased on the Continent in proportion to their decrease in my own backyard. I might have to persuade Mycroft to turn traitor to keep my mind from eroding itself. I believe he might just do so, if he saw the eminent threat to my well being.

Watson nods. “I am all too aware of that.” And now he waits.

My brain is sluggish and unresponsive. Had I not been feeling its ill-effects, I would have been able to successfully sidestep the question. Would that it were cocaine which was the issue at hand, to have sharpened my senses rather than dulled them.

It has been three days and three exceedingly long nights. 

I consider lying, but I had already resolved some time ago that that was not something my Watson deserved. Not after the Smith case, at any rate. The reading public had not kept silent on that point and, in fact, continues to make its views known to me; I have been well-chastened. Their input, though facile, is not without merit. No, I had, at that time, resolved a movement toward greater communication. And it is this greater communication which now seals my fate, for I know all that is about to occur as I respond. I signal my resignation with a sigh. “Three days, Watson. It is not so long, now, is it?”

He sighs as well. As I had expected.

“You well know my thoughts on the matter.”

“Yes, yes, my health. You have robbed me of my vices, one by one.”

He frowns. It is harsh. I know this. And the harshness of my reply serves only to illustrate that he is correct in his diagnosis. “You have already assured my immortality through your writings, John, and finding that insufficient, you are striving to bring me ever-closer to it in my physical form as well.” It is a humble peace offering, and I hope he accepts it, peppered as it is with his Christian name. It is the intimacy that he craves, after all. 

He smiles. I somehow still expect it to be harsh and demanding, but it is gentle, as always. Perhaps I wish it was less so. “The decision, as you well know, shall lie with you,” says he.

“I shall consider it,” I reply.

And it does lie with me, though I already know my mind is in no state to consider a single thing, and thusly, I have already made my decision.

The first time he had suggested this, I had held out one night more, a grand total of five, and it had been the ensuing hallucinations—the price one frequently pays for robbing the body of its required rest—which had made him press me for treatment. By hallucinations I do not mean speaking to you, my friend, for I am fully aware that you exist only within the confines of my own mind, my private whetstone, as it were. To clarify, I was seeing things which clearly did not exist within the parameters of a London flat. I had made no attempt to conceal them, but rather, I politely offered the tiger some marmalade. Such an act could not go unobserved. 

I had assumed, despite his abhorring the fruits of the poppy, that Watson would drug me. If not morphine, surely a sedative in my tea— for he crossed to the kitchen, discussing medical advances and the effect of various chemicals upon the body as he went. His back was turned toward me the entire time. Something he was not prepared to speak of, then, but in which he felt obliged to make an attempt. Indeed, I had misjudged his purpose and the reason for his embarrassment. 

I must suspend my account and explain.

I enjoy the chase as well as any hound, as my chronicler has put it, though for me it involves criminals through London streets rather than eligible ladies or gentlemen, And it is only when I tire of such perpetual exertion that I at last succumb to exhaustion. That I _rest_. It is a good system. Both efficient and effective. That is why my current lack of work is so disconcerting, for it only serves to bring about a corresponding lack of rest. Watson has told me innumerable times that this is unsustainable, but it is a pattern, and a familiar one at that. My mind finds both solace and strength in patterns.

I shall not recount the details of that initial conversation, or even of the events which followed, for two reasons. Firstly, I suppose it is still very much within my nature to shy away from such topics, even within my own thoughts, though I do not find them worthy of condemnation. Contempt, occasionally. Disregard, most definitely. Secondly, and perhaps more to the point, I haven’t a clear recollection of any of it, and I’ve no wish to do a disservice to either of us by way of a poor account. 

I do know this: it is not that I am unappreciative of the lassitude which follows the act. The physical sensations that accompany release are pleasurable enough, and the soporific effect is undeniable. I do not count myself amongst the uneducated who say to perform such activities on one’s own person causes harm. Why then, do I resist it? That is the question I posed to myself, then, as well as now. Though I suppose it would be more accurate to state that I have disregarded the question in favour of simply acknowledging it to be a remedy I require on occasion and leaving it at that. The chemicals released have emotional ties to feeling sated, or, at least override the ones fine-tuned to my own unique brand of anxiety. And I sleep at last.

It rankles, leaving such things unexamined. I have been told my stubbornness in exerting a sometimes ruthless control of my body and mind leads to rigidity of thought. Yes, amusing, is it not? ‘Ridgidity’. I am not lacking a certain degree of humour regarding my predicament. The fact remains, sexual gratification is truly a minor thing for which I have little desire, and even less interest. Yet, at moments like these, thoughts of reaping the benefits of such exertions seem to dominate my mind. And there is ‘dominate’, will my inadvertent humour never cease? Surely, that is another word which takes on dual meaning here, for when I find myself unable to perform the act, it is in his ability to dominate that Watson is invaluable to the process. 

Consent is far too precious a thing. Watson requires it. I suppose on that fifth sleepless night, I gave it... though in that state, it was admittedly with limited cognisance. I have since permitted him to do this. At times, barely permitted. But permitted I have. Such is the trust we have cultivated in one another. 

That we once fooled ourselves into thinking it entirely medicinal, though that moment was thankfully brief, is laughable now. We both know better, though have never spoken of it in so many words. Out loud, it is nothing but a simple and effective procedure to help me sleep, not an opportunity for Watson to make physical connections which neatly coincide with his emotional ones. He has always sought out such methods of expression. That I have not is one of the many ways in which I am singular in my demonstrations of affection. Reticent though I am, I am nonetheless certain I have made my feelings for Watson well known. 

That they are seldom conveyed in the traditional manner, or should I say in the manner favoured by inverts— if one could even use such a term with any accuracy for either of us— remains a contradiction of sorts, for I have taken on more than my fair share of physical activities: fencing, boxing, wrestling. And though these all have practical applications for my chosen profession—as opposed to, say, Watson’s lifelong preoccupation with rugby— my body has never been an enemy to be shunned. I have tamed it, yes. I have denied it food during times when I needed to think clearly. I have also, as I have recently come to admit, poisoned it slowly, but only in hopes of producing a beneficial effect. Never as punishment. I have withheld from my person nothing for which it craves...save my seven percent correction, the need for which I have, by and large, conquered. Nor am I one to forgo any small indulgences, though my personal style remains restrained by preference as opposed to ostentatious. 

I am rambling on. The point is already lost to me. 

Yes, consent is far too precious a thing. 

Today, I am far more lucid.

Watson waits.

And I nod.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, Vulgarweed and Notjustamumj for giving this a readthrough and helping me gain confidence in being able to post this <3


End file.
